We Have To Go Deeper
by billyliar
Summary: In which Dean dreams in bad porn and an angel innocently trying to deliver a message has his existence changed forever.   Dean/Cas with a side of Sam, Bobby, many awkward moments, and the as yet unresearched phenomenon of angel puberty.
1. Chapter 1

They were in a field, and he was kneeling on a blanket–the thick yellow-brown plaid one that lived in the back of the Impala for naps on the side of two-lane highways. Cas' trench coat and suit jacket were tangled together, pushed down to around his wrists, and Dean was sucking forcefully on the side of his neck. Try explaining that one to the garrison, he thought, glancing up to meet Castiel's eyes, and had his eyelashes always been that long? Dean bit Cas' earlobe, and he gave a moan that could've come straight out of amateur porn.

He pulled back for a moment to survey the flushed, kind of unfocused look on Castiel's face, and to undo the buttons of his shirt (which only made Cas flush brighter pink, which was amazing), and Dean reached for the back collar of his own t-shirt only to realize that he was already naked.

"Well that simplifies things," he said, and moved to suck at one dark nipple as he undid Castiel's pants and slowly reached inside.

"Please, Dean," Castiel said, voice catching a little. "I need you."

"Glad to see you're finally taking this whole fall from grace thing seriously," Dean thought, though a thrill had shot through him at those words.

"Please," Castiel said again, as Dean pulled the angel's pants down to his ankles, stopping to pull off his shoes and socks. This balance of nudity was a little screwed up, Dean thought, but who was he to argue?

One he had Castiel down to his whitey-tighties, he crawled back up to kiss him for a long moment. Somewhere between realizing that Castiel's mouth was even softer than it looked, and that he was unexpectedly (and inexplicably) really good at kissing, Dean noticed that Going to California was playing from somewhere, a little tiniliy but perfect nonetheless. "Thanks, baby," he thought in the Impala's general direction, and smiled against Castiel's lips.

"Dean," he said again, insistently, when they'd pulled apart.

"On it," Dean said. He kissed him once more, then began to drop light kisses down his stomach, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Cas' underwear and looking up for permission before pulling them down and tossing them off to the side.

"Well," Dean said, raising his eyebrows. Then he leaned forward and ran his tongue up the underside of Castiel's erection.

"Oh god," Castiel said.

"Call me Dean," Dean actively repressed the urge to say. An angel probably wouldn't find that one as hilarious as he did. Then again, that was kind of a funny thing for an angel to say during sex anyway, all that renaissance pornography of 'divine ecstasy' notwithstanding...

Dean shrugged, and took Castiel's cock into his mouth, feeling him tremble.

"Dean." He glanced up and saw Castiel looking at him, flushed and overwhelmed. It was a good look for him. Dean took a moment to enjoy it before beginning to suck him off in earnest.

"Oh my," Castiel said, and "Dean!" and "Yes, please." And then, as they were beginning to settle into a comfortable rhythm, with Castiel thrusting a little into his mouth, "Oh yes! Take it, you dirty boy."

Dean tried to snort around a mouthful of cock, and ended up choking violently.

"Cas, who taught you to work pay-per-view?" he asked, wiping away a few tears. Castiel stared at him impassively. "Nevermind. I can send them some jams and tiny cheeses later."

"Dean?" Castiel said, without moving his mouth.

"...yes?" Dean replied. He hadn't realized throwing your voice was an angel superpower, but he was prepared to roll with it.

"Here," he said. Dean blinked at the angel underneath him for a minute, then slowly turned to look over his shoulder–at a fully dressed Castiel holding out a folded piece of paper and regarding him with something between confusion and disapproval.

Dean was halfway to saying something about this suddenly becoming twice as good a night when the gears clicked into place.

"...I'm dreaming, and you're the real Castiel," Dean said slowly.

Real Castiel stared at him.

"..._awkward_," he concluded. He glanced back to sexy Castiel and found he'd vanished, the lucky bastard. "I can explain?"

"That's not necessary," Castiel said. And then, as Dean blinked, he vanished with the sound of wings. The piece of paper he'd been holding fluttered to Dean's lap. It was an address in east Texas, a nice seven hour drive away.

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean mumbled, blinking in the faint light making its way through the pea-colored motel blinds. He could just make out Sam in the other bed, making the bitchface at him without even opening his eyes.

"Dude," he said. "At least go in the bathroom and turn the fan on. Christ."

Dean took a quick inventory of himself. "...Right."

But first he groped on the nightstand for a pen and piece of paper, and scribbled down the address for what would doubtlessly be the most awkward angelic rendez-vous since Gabriel had done that whole Maury Povich number on the virgin Mary.


	2. Chapter 2

Actually, meeting up in Texas wasn't as bad as Dean had expected. Limited understanding of human social skills notwithstanding, Cas at least seemed reluctant to bring up dream-world blowjobs with Sam around. So, Dean stuck to his brother like glue for an afternoon, as they looked through thirty years' worth of microfiche of suspicious deaths, and a very awkward crisis was averted.

The actual hunt could have gone a little better, though.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded as they high-tailed it down a two-lane highway, Dean bleeding freely onto his baby's passenger seat.

"That, Sammy, was one pissed-off chupacabra," Dean said, checking the rearview. "Drive faster."

"Exactly," Sam said. "One chupacabra. One. Didn't even make it inside the house it was guarding, and here you are, ruining your own upholstery. You want to explain that one to me?"

By this time, Dean was having a truly shitty night. "You were there," he said, curling onto his uninjured side so that he faced away from his annoying, overly perceptive brother.

"Are you keeping pressure on that?" Sam asked, looking over to his brother in the faint yellow glow of a streetlight, and just being able to make out his brother giving him the finger with one blood-stained hand.

"You're right," Sam added after a minute's quiet. "I was there. And I saw you almost get your arm bitten off because you got distracted by the, the moonlight glistening on Cas' cheekbones, or something."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did he dazzle you?" Sam demanded.

Dean groaned, eyes drifting closed. "You are such a dick."

"I learned from the best."

And so they bitched back and forth all the way to the motel. But Dean stayed conscious and kept pressure on his wounds, and that was the important thing.

In the yellowy light of their motel room, Sam cut his brother out of another plaid shirt, and together they worked their way through most of a fifth of whiskey as Sam patched him up.

Once the worst of the wounds were sewn up, though, Sam felt compelled to ask. "So Dean. Is there, uh. Something you want to talk about?"

"Actually, there is," Dean said, taking another swig directly from the bottle.

Sam looked up from the patch of gauze he was attaching to his brother's bicep with most of a roll of medical tape.

"Did you hear they're remaking Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously?"

Dean ignored him. "No Whedon, no original cast? It's gonna be a disaster. Ow," he added as Sam squeezed his arm a little tighter in order to get his attention.

"You were mauled, Dean. Are you really going to bullshit me on this?"

Dean spent a moment trying to judge how pissed Sam was at him, how much he'd have to atone, and how long it would take to live this down.

Finally, Dean fixed his eyes on the ceiling and said, "…If I say no, are you gonna join PFLAG?"

"Technically, angels are genderless," Sam said, tearing off the end of the tape and fishing in the first aid kit for some butterfly bandages.

"What, have you checked? Don't answer that."

"Look. I'm just saying. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Just do your thing, and next time don't let it get you beat to shit. Deal?"

"I'm sorry, what exactly is 'my thing'?" Dean said.

"You know. Claim to be an astronaut, buy him a drink with a cherry in it, show him your car. I've watched you do it like at least a hundred times."

Dean blinked at him.

"Actually, he's perfect for you," Sam said, taking the bottle out of Dean's hand and pouring himself a glass like he was pouring orange juice. "You finally met someone who won't realize you steal all your pick-up lines from Han Solo."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Huh," said Dean. "In a lifetime of pumping weird shit full of rock salt, I think this is the strangest conversation I've ever had with you. Well done."

"Cheers," Sam said, and finished the rest of his drink in one go.

* * *

Naturally, the real insult to injury came later, when Dean had fallen asleep (propped on his side by about five pillows, to avoid rolling over on any fresh injuries).

"Okay, man," he told the Castiel standing in front of him in a classroom he vaguely remembered as being somewhere in Virginia. Or was it West Virginia? "This is all getting a little too Inception for my taste."

Cas just frowned at him. Which, combined with the fact that he was wearing all eighteen layers of his usual outfit, seemed to be a decent indication that this Castiel was the genuine article.

"So, what brings you by my humble subconscious?" Dean asked, taking a seat on the edge of the teacher's desk and picking up a glass paperweight that seemed to contain a dead jellyfish.

"I came as a favor to you," Castiel said, ignoring the way Dean's eyebrows shot up. "I thought this would be the most expedient way to discuss the current situation."

"Okay, shoot," Dean said, beginning to open desk drawers at random. Yeah, this had to be West Virginia. Middle school, maybe? The good old days, when he'd been able to make short jokes at Sam's expense rather than the other way around.

"The other night," Castiel began. "When I observed you in the act of-"

Dean suddenly realized he did _not_ want to hear Castiel complete that sentence.

"Hey, what can I tell you?" he interrupted. "Brains get up to some weird shit when left to their own devices. I mean, when I was eight, I had nightmares about the air conditioner from The Brave Little Toaster every night for an entire summer."

"Dean."

"You'd think it'd be zombies or werewolves or something, but no. I was afraid of home appliances."

"Dean."

"Yes?" Dean said. "Present."

"I'd prefer to resolve this," Castiel said. "I understand that I put you in an awkward position, for which I apologize, but we do have larger problems to contend with."

Dean blinked at him for a minute. "Wait, so, it's back to business as usual? You're not pissed?"

Cas gave him a bemused look. "Dean, in your vast repertoire of character flaws, this is hardly the one I'm most concerned about."

"Well, thanks for that pep talk, coach."

Castiel frowned faintly, but didn't seem to have anything to add.

"Guess I'll be waking up now," Dean said, after a few more seconds of awkward silence. "I'm sure it's been like at least half an hour since I passed out in a bloody heap."

"No. You'll sleep until morning," Castiel said, a simple statement of fact. "Dreamlessly."

"Hey-" Dean began, but Castiel was gone, and the classroom was already fading to black. "Good talk," he muttered to no one in particular, and true to Castiel's word, fell into a peaceful slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just in case it was unclear, this is in fact set during Season 5. My apologies for the delay, but the good news is the next chapter is already mostly written. Thank you all for your reviews and subscriptions! This is the first piece of writing I've posted anywhere in a long time, and it's so encouraging to know that people are reading. Seriously, thank you.

* * *

The next time Dean laid his weary head to rest, he fell asleep with the TV on and dreamt about jumping a drawbridge in the Impala so that Sam could drive-by a giant shark that was also half a squid. Assuming there weren't any failed science experiments hanging off the Novak family tree somewhere, Dean thought it was safe to say Cas had left that one alone. Sam offered to look up cephalopods in the dream interpretation book for him, and smirked when Dean didn't even know what the hell that was.

So as he saw it, things were pretty much back to what passed for normal. His injuries healed up quick enough, and he didn't start speaking Spanish or wanting to take a bite out of anyone's pet, so they went back to finish the job a few nights later. This time Sam insisted on better protective clothing, and they dispatched the creepy fucker who for some reason thought a small army of bewitched chupacabras fell under his second amendment rights with a lot of mess but only a little trouble.

A couple of the pups got away, but for all Dean knew they were probably a vital part of the food chain or something. (Mr. "It's a class of _molluscs_, Dean" probably did know, but Dean wasn't asking.) And anyway, they were kind of cute. Maybe not keep-a-few-dozen-as-pets cute, but shooting ugly puppies wasn't really the job he'd signed up for.

Sam called Bobby to tell him that, as it turned out, there were still some things left in the world that didn't have to do with the damn Apocalypse, while Dean broke the speed limit and refused to turn the music down.

Back to business as usual.

It was making him twitchy.

At the very least, he expected some sort of payback for the million and one times he'd called Sam gay.

But instead, nothing. In fact, it was almost like there were way more important things going on and no one had the time or inclination to give a shit. Which Dean thought he probably ought to consider a small miracle, but he'd always been a little suspicious of those, and most of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

No one had even seemed _surprised._

He drove from Texas to South Dakota drumming along with the music on the steering wheel, one foot jiggling impatiently against the accelerator.

* * *

Dean loves his baby, he does, but after the better part of a day behind the wheel, it felt damn good to stretch all the kinks out of his back and finally crack a beer.

Bobby was on the phone when they came in, but nodded at them and wheeled himself out of the way so Sam could put a case of beer in the fridge. Dean looked around the corner into the other room and saw Cas sitting at Bobby's desk with what looked to be about thirty feet of dot-matrix printer paper laid out around him. Cas was glaring at the section in front of him with something close to wrath as Dean crept over to him.

"Hi," he said loudly, directly into Cas' ear.

Cas didn't startle, or even look up.

"Hello," he replied, tentatively drawing a mark on the paper, then frowning at it for a long moment before neatly crossing it out.

"Writing your memoirs?" Dean asked, barely resisting the urge to sit on top of Cas' notes.

"My enochian," Castiel said, after a moment. "I thought I should write down what might be useful. Before I forget."

"Oh," Dean said, though it wasn't what he'd have liked to say at all. "How's that going?"

"Unsatisfactorily."

"Sorry to hear that," Dean said, because yes, business as usual did mean acting like an ass. "You want to come grab some food? We brought chinese."

"No. Thank you anyways."

"There's beef in it," Dean tempted. "And we can make fun of Sam for not being able to work chopsticks."

"I can't use chopsticks either," Cas replied, crossing through another symbol and replacing it with a different one that was almost identical.

"No sweat," Dean told him. "I'll teach you. It'll be easy since you don't have gigantic monster hands-"

"Dean," Castiel cut him off, finally looking up from his work. "Go away. Now."

Dean blinked at him for a moment. "You're a bad influence, you know that?" he called in the direction of Bobby's kitchen.

"Dean," Castiel growled.

"I'm going, I'm going," Dean said, hands raised in mock surrender as he backed out of the room.

In the kitchen, Sam was giving him the "you are such an idiot" look again, and Dean hipchecked the back of his chair to make him drop the dumpling he'd carefully picked up.

* * *

The trouble was, Sam's advice was shit.

I mean, yeah, technically he _could_ bring Cas a strawberry daiquiri and tell him that there weren't enough scoundrels in his life, but he was guessing Cas' reaction would be closer to a blank stare than a dreamy swoon.

Cas _knew_ him. Cassie knew he hunted monsters, and Lisa knew he was basketcase with good intentions, but Cas had seen him torture souls in hell and rebuilt Dean's body from the skeleton up, and if that was too close for comfort, it was definitely too close for pretty lines of bullshit.

Dean peeked around the corner for the tenth time, expecting to see Cas scowl and cross out another line with the violence of, well, an avenging angel.

Instead, Castiel was slumped forward with his head on the desk, pen still in hand. Dean was all the way across the room before he realized the angel was snoring, his breath rustling the papers he'd fallen asleep on top of.

"Looking a little human there, Cas," Dean said quietly as he gently tugged his notes out of harm's way. After a moment's consideration, he retrieved the trench coat from the arm of the sofa and draped it across his shoulders.

If he might have watched Castiel sleep a little too long for it not to be creepy, well, turnabout was fair play.

* * *

Though he wouldn't have known whether to classify it as a good dream or not, Castiel dreamt of heaven.

Now that he had more of a basis for comparison, he realized heaven was colored differently than earth. Everything seemed a little too bright, exaggerated, oversaturated. But it was still his home, and still beautiful.

This, he supposed, would be Dean's heaven, all starry skies and two-lane roads, the greatest hits of Dean's existence. He wondered if he would see himself here, fitted in somewhere between nights with cool autumn air rolling in the windows of the Impala, and amazing one-night stands, and hearing Zeppelin IV for the first time on Bobby's dusty record player.

Suddenly, seamlessly, he was aware of a hand in his.

"Dean?" he said, and as he turned to look, the figure vanished. "Dean!" He took a step forward, and felt his stomach drop. The asphalt beneath his feet seemed to bubble and melt away, and left him plummeting through the air, wings doing nothing to slow his fall.

This must have been a child's idea of heaven, a neon sky and large, cartoonish clouds rushing past him on either side. He reached out a hand to touch the next one, and it stung his palm like concrete. He tried his wings again.

"You coming?" Castiel looked around for the voice, but there was nothing. And anyway, Dean wouldn't be here; he was afraid of heights. And alive. Presumably.

Castiel awoke like he was surfacing from underwater. Compared to the resplendent colors of heaven, early morning in Bobby's living room was too dull to make out. For a long time he could only stare, unblinking, into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel hadn't moved in three hours. Three hours of numbers flipping on Bobby's old analog alarm clock. Angels didn't pay much attention to time. He'd known the apocalypse was coming, but now he could feel it gnawing on his bones, just like the maggots would be in another day or week or month. Human lifespans were many times shorter than angelic ones, but not as short as the lifespan of a human standing against the will of heaven. Which Castiel supposed he would be shortly.

He had once, while under the influence of most of a bottle of grain alcohol (and therefore very slightly tipsy), tried to start a conversation on the subject of mortality, assuming that those born human would have some natural insight into the subject.

Sam had told him what he half-remembered of Philosophy 101 and then misquoted Robert Herrick. Bobby had snorted and told him that life sucked and then you died.

Fifty thousand years, and that was still all they could come up with. _Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. _Well, one of the two came naturally enough.

Castiel nodded to the empty room. He always felt better when he had a plan of action.

* * *

Dean dreamt he was on a heart-shaped bed in a motel room that he'd _told_ Sam he'd be seeing in his nightmares. He was laying on it the wrong way, with his head in the triangle part and his feet going down towards one of the rounded ends. Some truly awful porno music was playing from somewhere, and Dean was a little embarrassed to find he had half a boner just from classical conditioning.

He rolled over onto his stomach so he could see if anyone interesting was going to come through the door, and in doing so, totally missed the moment when Castiel materialized on the other side of the bed.

"Um," Castiel said, unsure what to say but instantly gaining Dean's attention anyways.

Dean, feeling he should try to live up to the setting, adopted his sleaziest expression and replied with, "Well hello, sexy."

Castiel swallowed, but didn't look away.

Dean took hold of his tie, using it to tug the angel closer. Castiel rolled onto his side compliantly enough, and let his hand fall to the bed awkwardly between them. Dean's hand went there next, tracing the curve of one finger for a moment before pulling the sleeve of his trenchcoat down and carefully extricating his arm from both it and his suit jacket. All the while, Castiel just watched him, following every movement with an intense blue stare.

Dean's hand ran up the front of Cas' white dress shirt next, feeling the heat of his body through the rumpled fabric and pausing on his chest when he realized he could feel the pounding of Castiel's heart.

Castiel swallowed again as Dean met his eyes, following the flick of tongue as he licked his lips, and Dean got the feeling the angel might have blushed if he'd known how.

Not very 70's porn of him, Dean had to say.

"Nervous?" he asked lightly.

"No," Castiel said accurately, and Dean quirked a smile.

"Good," Dean said, tangling a hand in Cas' already messy hair and pulling him in for a tender kiss.

Castiel didn't know to close his eyes, so he looked at Dean, his freckles, his eyelashes fluttering as he brushed his tongue uncertainly against Castiel's bottom lip. Involuntarily Castiel trembled against him, and Dean ran his thumb slowly along the shell of his ear, kissing him chastely once more before Castiel's lips parted and allowed Dean's tongue to slide in against his own.

To Dean, Castiel tasted of springtime, something that suggested sunlight and clean laundry and fresh-cut grass. He drifted in the moment, eyes closed, Castiel occupying all available senses.

Scarcely a minute later, Castiel pulled away, breathing heavily and looking like he half expected to be struck by lightning.

Dean licked his lips, forgot what he was going to say, and licked his lips again. His thumb brushed back the hair at Cas' temple, which was, he noticed, just a little sweaty.

He realized he'd never seen an angel look scared before.

"Castiel?" he said, a question and an invocation all at once.

He woke up in Bobby's spare room, with a cool breeze blowing in over the line of salt on the windowsill. And at the side of his bed, breathless and wearing the same expression of total panic, was Castiel.

Dean swallowed. "Cas?"

Castiel said nothing, just looked at him with those wide, bright eyes.

"Cas," Dean said again, reaching for him and catching the angel's wrist just as he disappeared into thin air.

* * *

Castiel reappeared in the kitchen, knocking over several chairs and banging his head on the fridge. He attempted a curse.

"We got stairs for a reason," Bobby said, looking up from his morning coffee. "And I think you mean 'motherfucker.'"

"Of course," Castiel said distractedly, pressing two fingers to his forehead and checking them for blood. None seemed to be forthcoming.

Love came easily to angels. Castiel had been built to love and care for all God's creation. Despite what certain of his superiors may have thought, Castiel had never seen any problem with loving Dean Winchester as well.

But Castiel had never _wanted_ someone before.

There was a noise from the doorway as Dean cut around Bobby's chair to get into the room. Castiel looked up at him and drank him in again, bed-headed and half-awake, lips already forming a question, and Castiel thought that this must be what they meant by temptation.

Then Dean had taken his hand, and was pulling him to his feet.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked, planting a hand on his shoulder when Castiel wobbled alarmingly to one side. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Castiel watched three fingers weave back and forth in front of his line of vision, cataloging the length between joints, Dean's ring, remembering how crooked they had once been, before he'd healed the evidence of the repeated breaks.

"...okay, I'm gonna say that's the wrong answer," Dean decided after a long minute of this.

"I'm fine," Castiel said, remembering himself.

"Uh-huh," Dean said, half-dragging him the rest of the way across the kitchen and helping him to fall heavily into a chair. Castiel let his forehead rest against the cool formica and gratefully closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was drinking when Castiel recovered his equilibrium, although by itself that didn't mean much. Bobby was nowhere to be seen, and the first floor of the house was quiet.

"So," Dean said, pouring himself another glass of reeking liquid. "I guess we need to have a talk."

"That would be sensible," Castiel agreed, eyeing the bottle with detached interest. Maybe one day soon he would be unangelic enough to get drunk.

They sat in silence for a long moment, each staring across the table at the other, but never meeting each others' eyes.

Finally Dean downed the rest of his drink, cleared his throat, and said, "So, um. Cas. Do you have feelings for me?"

Cas raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said simply, and Dean's heart leapt for a split-second before he realized his mistake.

"No, I mean," and here Dean almost choked on his own ineptitude, "I mean romantic feelings."

"Yes."

"Like, sex and dating sort of stuff. Wait, what?"

Castiel gave him a look that fell somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

"I love you," he said, and frowned at the look that crossed Dean's face. "You thought I didn't?"

Dean had no answer to that.

Castiel badly wanted to kiss him again. He reached for him, fingers tracing the line of Dean's collarbone before grabbing a handful of his t-shirt and tugging him forward across the narrow table.

Dean was slower to respond this time, hands resting uselessly on the tabletop as Castiel's lips brushed against his. Sparks of something new and terrifying raced down Castiel's spine, and Dean's hand came up to cup his face, thumb brushing the smooth skin just below his ear. Castiel made a soft noise against his mouth and inexpertly pushed his tongue forward to lick at where Dean's lips were still pressed chastely together.

There was a screech of metal on tile as Dean stood, sending his chair flying backwards. Castiel regarding him with wide, unfocused eyes was a pretty sight, but Dean wasn't made of iron, and a second later he was kissing Castiel again, slipping an arm around to pull his body flush against Dean's own.

Castiel tensed a little at that, hips rolling forward of their own volition. He could feel Dean's body heat through four layers of clothing, and he realized with a sudden disorienting jolt that he wanted to feel it better, bare skin against bare skin. Dean's teeth caught his bottom lip and he made an involuntary, embarrassing sound that might have been a variation on the word "please."

One of Castiel's hands fell tentatively against Dean's side, fingers sneaking up underneath his t-shirt to the trace the line of his ribs.

"Cas," he said faintly, "can I...?" His voice trailed off, but Castiel didn't need to hear the full question in order to agree.

They broke apart for a moment, Dean shucking off Castiel's trench coat and suit jacket while the angel stood there like an obedient kindergartner being helped out of his winter coat. Dean untucked his shirt for good measure, but hesitated over the waistband of Castiel's pants, even though he'd felt Castiel's erection up against him not five seconds ago.

It was worse than high school, Dean thought. Never knowing if they were counting on him to make the first move, or if they were going to turn out to be waiting for marriage or something. What was the opposite of casual sex? Formal sex? Professional sex?

Castiel mercifully derailed this train of thought by undoing his own trousers. Dean, who had never considered navy briefs especially sexy, swallowed hard. There was a dark stain where the head of Cas' cock was pressed against the fabric. Castiel watched him stare, waiting for a response.

"Cas," he breathed faintly, and tucked his thumbs underneath Castiel's waistband, pulling his briefs down slowly over his erection.

Dean stared for a long moment. "Enraptured," Castiel thought hazily. before pulling Dean's soft gym shorts down as well, and tugging him forward to rub their cocks together. They made twin noises of surprise and pleasure, Dean pulling him into a deep kiss; Castiel's hands finding their way to his lower back, fingertips trailing along Dean's spine. They thrust together inelegantly, smearing precum onto each others' skin.

Castiel made a wordless, needy sound deep in his throat, and Dean pulled back for a second, in order to wrap a hand around their cocks, jerking them both together. Castiel gasped and Dean caught it against his mouth, before moving to kiss just below his jawline, suck at the side of his neck, bite his earlobe. Castiel was trembling at each touch now. Dean shoved him two steps back into the refrigerator, and Castiel let his head loll back against it as Dean fisted* their cocks a little faster.

"Nngh," Castiel said, and then, "Dean."

And then he was coming, with a gasp and a flicker of lights and Dean suddenly coming with him, messily onto both their stomachs.

As they regained their senses Castiel was wide-eyed and breathless; disheveled, come-sticky and absolutely the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen.

He said Dean's name again, very softly.

Dean took a step backwards, pulling free of the hands resting on the small of his back.

"Well," he said, and swallowed. His first instinct was to make a flippant remark, but nothing came to mind.

Castiel's gaze dropped to his stomach, curiously trailing a finger down Dean's sodden t-shirt.

"If he puts that in his mouth..." Dean thought vaguely, and then "Oh sweet jesus, I can't–"

There was a soft, wet sound as Castiel sucked his finger clean. "Can't what?" he asked.

Dean swallowed. "Nothing," he said, pulling his shorts back up. "Um. Let's get cleaned up?" Evidently Cas was still a little out of it, because he just nodded and let Dean lead the way to the bathroom, offering none of his usual polysyllabic observations. Dean didn't look him in the eye the entire time, changing his clothes as quickly as humanly possible and wordlessly thrusting a clean shirt into Castiel's hands.

None of this kept Cas from watching him with something close to wonder, or from following the movements of Dean's hand with his own, as if looking for the right moment to catch a hold of it.

So in the end, Dean did what he always did when someone told him they loved him: he woke his brother up, and fled the state.


End file.
